Pausing to dwell upon this apathy, it appeared to me, as the fatal cars came by me, that I descried in the second car, through the portal in which the charioteer was seated, a figure stretched upon the floor. At the same time, I thought I smelt tobacco. The latter impression passed quickly from me; the former remained. Curious to know whether this prostrate figure was the one impressible man of the whole capital who had been stricken insensible by the terrors revealed to him, and whose form had been placed in the car by the charioteer, from motives of humanity, I followed the procession. It turned into Leadenhall-market, and halted at a public-house. Each driver dismounted. I then distinctly heard, proceeding from the second car, where I had dimly seen the prostrate form, the words: ‘And a pipe!’ The driver entering the public-house with his fellows, apparently for purposes of refreshment, I could not refrain from mounting on the shaft of the second vehicle, and looking in at the portal. I then beheld, reclining on his back upon the floor, on a kind of mattress or divan, a little man in a shooting-coat. The exclamation ‘Dear me’ which irresistibly escaped my lips caused him to sit upright, and survey me. I found him to be a good-looking little man of about fifty, with a shining face, a tight head, a bright eye, a moist wink, a quick speech, and a ready air. He had something of a sporting way with him. He looked at me, and I looked at him, until the driver displaced me by handing in a pint of beer, a pipe, and what I understand is called ‘a screw’ of tobacco—an object which has the appearance of a curl-paper taken off the barmaid’s head, with the curl in it. ‘I beg your pardon,’ said I, when the removed person of the driver again admitted of my presenting my face at the portal. ‘But—excuse my curiosity, which I inherit from my mother—do you live here?’ ‘That’s good, too!’ returned the little man, composedly laying aside a pipe he had smoked out, and filling the pipe just brought to him. ‘Oh, you _don’t_ live here then?’ said I. He shook his head, as he calmly lighted his pipe by means of a German tinder-box, and replied, ‘This is my carriage. When things are flat, I take a ride sometimes, and enjoy myself. I am the inventor of these wans.’ His pipe was now alight. He drank his beer all at once, and he smoked and he smiled at me. ‘It was a great idea!’ said I. ‘Not so bad,’ returned the little man, with the modesty of merit. ‘Might I be permitted to inscribe your name upon the tablets of my memory?’ I asked. ‘There’s not much odds in the name,’ returned the little man, ‘—no name particular—I am the King of the Bill-Stickers.’ ‘Good gracious!’ said I.